


303 - Intermission

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mini Fic, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 16:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20011528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: The first time you hear Intermission. It's a little bit heavy with fluff and feel. It's also a mini fic.





	303 - Intermission

Van had been stuck in a loop for days. Instead of hearing his alarm, he'd hear the melody. Instead of chords and riffs for other verses he'd penned, all he could play were the same notes over and over. The problem was that it didn't fit anywhere. Although his acoustic tracks always being fan favourites, Van didn't really want a slow burner on the new record. But those goddamn notes were haunting him. 

"Honey, you gotta just like… exercise 'em or something," you told him when he'd emerge from his little studio for dinner. Sometimes he'd try to sing something else, something new, but eventually those same little notes hummed their way into the kitchen air, following him. 

"What do ya mean?" he asked as he sat at the table, a forkful of the pasta you'd cooked for him already heading into his mouth. You knew he couldn't tell you'd made the spaghetti from scratch, but you didn't cook for the accolade. You honestly just wanted Van to be happy and full. 

"Write the song. Or the chorus or whatever it is. Then just like, record it and put it somewhere and leave it. Maybe one day you'll find a song for it," you explained with a shrug. 

Van thought for a second, then nodded. "Yeah! Yeah, babe. Not a bad idea that…" Then he made a funny little 'huh!' sound. You just snorted and handed him a napkin. Sometimes your food went a little cold because you'd watch Van eat for a moment or two too long. He probably knew and he probably liked the attention, the love. So neither of you really changed that habit. 

Starting on your bowl, you were happy with the density of the pasta and the cheese-to-sauce ratio. When he spied your little wriggle of joy, a smile twitched on Van's lips. That, you did not see. 

After dinner Van began to pack the dishwasher, like he always did, but you ushered him away. "Go do your thing," you ordered. He was meant to be home, on holiday, but that was a premise completely and utterly lost on Van McCann. 

Periodically throughout the night you'd check in on him, smile at him from the door. Half the time he was so lost in the songwriting that he probably wouldn't even notice Mike Goddamn Skinner standing there. The other half of the time, he'd reach out to you and ask you to spellcheck or find a rhyming word. 

Somewhere between eleven and twelve, you crawled into the cool space between bed sheets and fall asleep. 

You were in a dream, and Van could see you were happy. Warm. Safe. Nevertheless, he landed on the bed next to you and started poking at your sleeping frame.  
"Babe? Babe, wake up," he said softly. Van curled your hair behind your ear and began to kiss you awake with soft pecks to your cheek and neck. "C'mon, babe. I got it. Come listen." 

The heavy force of Van moving off the bed and the loud sound of knocking on the wooden doorframe as he left the room woke you up. After pawing around in the sheets looking for your phone, you read it was just after one in the morning. Knowing Van would just return and shake you awake if you didn't follow him, you groggily got up.

The house was dark, so you didn't bother opening your eyes properly. You knew where Van was anyway. The door to his studio was open and when you walked in, he was sitting in his chair, acoustic on his lap. 

"What?" you croaked out, plodding yourself down on the floor in front of him. 

Van wheeled the chair forward enough that you could lean forward and rest your head on the thigh not supporting his guitar. 

"I did it!" he whispered, like only _now_ he didn't want to wake you. "I just… I don't know… It's different. Tell us what ya think, yeah?" 

You nodded into his thigh and shuffled a little. If anyone had asked you a couple years ago what you thought about the prospect of _literally_ sitting at a man's feet upon his request to wake up in the middle of the night to indulge his creative bursts of energy, you'd probably cackle like a witch. But then, Van. 

He carefully strummed the notes on his guitar. Of course, you recognised the melody from his days of agonising over it, but it was different. It was cohesive. Soft. Beautiful. 

Van began to sing, "Piece things back up for me  
It's hysterical to think that it's almost a year to the date  
Since we drank out back 'till the morning  
Delivered that fact that we'd all just sat counting days  
Yeah, we laughed there for hours  
And I must say that it resonates…" 

You raised your head to watch Van. His eyes were closed, thick lashes pressed together. 

"Usually I'd go Lake View  
And wait for the labels to phone through, for the third  
Nearly every other word that falls from your mouth  
Keeps me hanging around…" 

And that was it. Van's eyes opened slowly. He focussed on you, then melted. First it was a great emotional melt. It was that feeling when you love something so much that your mind goes _**!!!!!!!!**_ and your emotions begin to manifest in your physiology. Van shook as a rouge shiver trickled down his spine. Quickly and far too recklessly, he put his guitar on the ground. He followed you and instrument down, sinking to his knees in front of you. 

"Babe. You ain't cryin' over that little thing, are ya? Wasn't that bad?" he joked, unable to really cope with your tears - good or bad. He bundled you up in a cuddle, all tangled hair and overlapping limbs. 

"I'm not crying… It's just like… You know how my mum always cries when she hears Karma Police? Like, even if she's happy?" 

Van laughed and nodded. "Yeah, she fuckin' told me about that when she was on one. Reckon it was your birthday last year or… I don't know. But there's a magic sound or something?" 

"Uh-huh. Specific notes fuck with emotion. Think maybe you found one that fucks with mine," you explained, sniffing a little. "Will you put that on the record?" 

"I will now," Van replied. "Find a way to get the little thing in there for you…" 

All your favourite things in life were thick… sticky… heavy with whatever it was that made them good. Devil's mud cake with ganache icing. Guitars overly distorted and blasted through old amplifiers. Honey on freshly baked bread. Stomping through muddy puddles in gumboots. Moments like that with Van. 

It was like time worked differently. Small touches were felt in the bones, fingerprint light turned osmium heavy. If you moved apart, you'd fling back together, like slow motion magnets. Prolonged, infinite puppy love. 

Van finished the sentence you didn't know he'd left undone, "…just like how you make me special fresh pasta, yeah?"


End file.
